


Recall of the living

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Series: Up Came the Sun [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aunt May is kinda there too, But he's always had a heart, Everybody Lives Nobody Dies, Fluff and Angst, Gen, I'm following the mold of MCU's screwed up timeline, Iron dad and Spider son, Light Angst, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony spoils Peter, Who wouldn't he's so precious it hurts, holy shit guys I'm branching out, it's also peter's birthday, no relationships because he's a teenager for fuck's sake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 10:10:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15579642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: They didn’t remember.  Nobody did...But in typical Peter Parker fashion, Peter Parker was unlucky enough to remember.





	Recall of the living

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Not Sherlock. Lol. If you subscribe for Sherlock, I have some WIPs, I'm not switching fandoms.
> 
> 2) But I am branching out, bitches. Dipping my toes into writing for a new fandom. I've always been a secret Iron Man stan (Tony always had a heart, goddammit!), and IW pushed me over the brink. So here we go!
> 
> 3) There will be no real shipping relationships in these, aside from mentions of teenage crushes. Because MCU Peter is a goddamn child right now and I'm a fucking grown-up who can rent a car by almost 10 years.
> 
> 4) Any MCU works will probably be one-shots posted to this series.
> 
> 5) EVERYBODY LIVES
> 
> 6) I'm not addressing any time travel nonsense outside of a hand-wave, because I don't care. A wizard did it.
> 
> 7) If you don't mind a blog that consists of shitposting, misunderstanding the memes all the kids talk about today, Johnlock conspiracies, and occasional MCU screaming follow me on the tumblr dot com [whimsicalethnographies](http://whimsicalethnographies.tumblr.com/)

They didn’t remember. Nobody did.

May, Ned, all those who were left behind after the Snap, everyone who watched their mothers and siblings and friends and baristas serving coffee fade away into ash. Even Pepper, who Peter had learned from Mr. Barton had been the delicate thread that barely held Mr. Stark together, didn’t remember. A blessing, Mr. Rogers had called it. He told Peter he wished he’d forgotten like the rest, that they didn’t have an extra four years stuck in their heads. “Schrodinger’s quadrennium” Mr. Stark had called it. Peter had had to Google that word.

None of those who were taken remembered either, not really. Mr. Quill described it as a blackout (whatever that felt like), Dr. Strange, like coming out of anesthesia. Everyone Peter had spoken to described it like a blurry, black hole, an empty spot in their memories.

But in typical Peter Parker fashion, Peter Parker was unlucky enough to remember. He remembered everything, every moment of four years spent in semi-darkness, half-solid and desperately looking for someone he knew. He’d found Strange, and Quill, and something that seemed to be a tree with eyes that was clinging mindlessly to Quill, and seconds before being painfully ripped back into existence, Mr. Barnes, who he remembered from the airport. They’d all barely been shades, wherever they were. Dr. Stange had been semi-coherent, while everyone else had seemed drugged. Simultaneously scared and unconcerned about where, or what, they were. Like ghosts who didn’t know they were dead. And even Dr. Strange had slipped into that strange mindset, only coming back when Peter begged him to, begged him not to leave him alone. 

Then he was back in that strange, reddish world, tripping into Mr. Stark’s arms. Every molecule of his body burned, every nerve ending on fire, while every one of his senses felt like an alarm blaring and pulsing through his skull. It was agony. But that time, the agony didn’t pull him apart and reassemble him in a dark, cloudy haze that felt like it existed between worlds. That time, when Mr. Stark caught him, his legs stayed solid. That time, the sharp red rocks and shattered debris stabbed into his shins when he hit the ground. And that time, Mr. Stark was able to hold onto him and keep him from floating away.

Peter remembered more of the dark, hazy place--the _Soul World_ , Dr. Strange had called it during a stretch of lucidity--than he did of the trip back home. His mind felt incapable of holding onto things as they waited, and aside from feverish naps and vomiting into a bucket, and the vague sensation of Mr. Stark brushing his damp, sweaty hair off his forehead, it seemed like there was just a giant hole.

 _“Sleep,” Mr. Stark had told him, guiding him to a small bunk on what looked like a Quinjet. Peter had seen them before, when Mr. Stark took him to the Compound. “It’ll be awhile before Strange can_ disapparate _us back home.”_

_“How did you get this here?” Peter let Mr. Stark help him onto the hard bunk. The blanket was too scratchy against his face, and his limbs felt like jelly. He felt like he had in the first few hours after he’d been bitten. But at least that meant he was solid and real again._

_“Thor,” Mr. Stark balled something up and propped it under Peter’s head like a pillow. “He’s got a fancy new ax.”_

_“Neat,” Peter squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of nausea washed over him. “Oh no…”_

_“Shit,” he’d heard over the ringing in his ears, then a bucket appeared under his mouth as bile and dust and probably the remains of the breakfast burrito he’d eaten before he got on the bus all came up_.

Everything after that was an incoherent blur. Peter vaguely remembers Mr. Stark refusing to leave his side, even after both a woman and a man came to try and fetch him. He remembers puking a few more times, and shivering uncontrollably, and then being dragged to his feet and leaning heavily on Mr. Stark as they walked somewhere. Then nothing, until he woke up tucked into a ridiculously large and soft bed, May asleep in a recliner next to him and holding his hand. Mr. Stark was on a couch under a large window, awkwardly trying to scroll through some holograms with one hand. His left was tucked against his chest in a sling, heavily bandaged. Peter hadn’t noticed he was injured.

_“Ah,” Mr. Stark seemed to sense he was awake, looking over. “I see the Spiderling has decided to grace us with his presence.” His voice was disinterested, but Peter saw the shine in his eyes. “Wake Aunt Hottie up, would you? She’s been driving us all around the bend with worrying. I tried to tell her you just needed a long nap, but…”_

That was three weeks ago (it took awhile to remember how days passed). They are still at the Compound, all of them, even Pepper--she’d long ago insisted he not call her Miss Potts--and Happy, who’d wrapped him in a bear hug he wasn’t expecting. Peter and May have rooms in Tony’s wing, and they haven’t even discussed going back to Queens. The entire situation is far too opulent; the bathroom off Peter’s room, the “ensuite” May had called it with a twinkle in her eyes, is bigger than Peter’s entire bedroom back home. He won’t dare complain though, not about the too soft bed that doesn’t stop the ruminating and the tears when he climbs in at night, or the giant Lego sets that showed up in his bedroom one afternoon after lunch that don’t quite keep him busy enough (it’s not the same without Ned, anyway), or the way both Mr. Stark and May hover constantly, both of them slipping him extra ice cream and cookies between meals, thinking they’re hiding it from the other. Peter is tired.

And Peter is tired of pretending he has the same empty spot in his brain as everyone else. They’d debriefed this morning, after everyone had slept and injuries were on their way to healing, in a large room full of the remarkable people Peter had idolized since he was a child. The large holographic clock near the ceiling read 13:00, 5/31/2018. His seventeenth birthday is tomorrow. As if only three weeks had passed since Peter got on a bus, and not four years. As if Peter isn’t kind of maybe going to have lived (existed? Was he alive in there?) twenty-one years tomorrow. As if four years that apparently only six people in the entire universe seemed to remember were nothing but a fever dream. Four. Years. Nobody has mentioned his birthday. He doesn’t blame them, and he doesn’t mind. Everyone has more important things to deal with right now.

_“Honey? You in there?” May had squeezed his arm, shaking him a little. She knew, as well as Pepper and Happy, even if she didn’t remember. She knew her little boy was gone for four years. Mr. Stark had insisted, and the newly reincorporated SHIELD had allowed it._

_“Yeah, yeah,” Peter cleared his throat. “Sorry.”_

_“Do you remember anything, son?” Nick Fury was standing over him, his voice softer than his intimidating stance._

_“No,” he said instantly. Mr. Fury had nodded and headed back up to the front of the room, where a uniformed lady with brown hair was typing into some kind of device. He felt Mr. Stark’s hand clap onto his shoulder and squeeze. Peter had a feeling he knew he was lying, but he didn’t say anything, just left his hand on Peter’s shoulder as his eyes followed Mr. Fury as he paced. Peter was tired, and he let his mind drift to thoughts of the massive, soft couch in front of the massive, state-of-the-art television in the common area. He was halfway through Brooklyn 99. Mr. Lang and Mr. Bucky liked to watch with him. If he admitted he remembered, he doubted they’d let him watch this afternoon. And he’d rather not remember anyway._

_He’d rather not spend more than half each night lying awake, replaying four years in his head that don’t exist for the rest of the universe._

****

“Hey, kid,” a calloused hand shakes his ankle.

“Mmmmpf,” Peter grunts, twisting and pushing his face in the soft cushion on the back of the couch.

“Enough of that, Spider Baby,” the hand squeezes his bare foot. “Up. You should be in your bed.”

“Not a baby.”

“Those juice boxes you love say otherwise.”

Peter peeks one eye open. Mr. Stark is perched on the end of the couch, and Jake Peralta’s face is paused on the giant screen behind him. The room is mostly dark, light from the open common kitchen throwing shadows on Mr. Stark’s face. He looks tired, and old. He’s ditched the sling, his injured arm resting on his thigh.

“I’m going to be seventeen tomorrow. Not a baby.”

Mr. Stark’s face screws up for just a moment, a fleeting shadow of existential panic, then it’s gone and he rolls his eyes. “I know, which is part of why we let you nap away the day...and night.” He gestures towards the windows that run almost ceiling to floor. They’re made of special glass Peter can barely stick to; he tried, then was promptly scolded by May for leaving fingerprints on Pepper’s clean glass. The sky is clear and dark, stars twinkling, outside. “Big day tomorrow.”

Peter shrugs. “I don’t have anything planned,” he yawns around the words.

“Maybe you don’t. Don’t tell your hot Aunt I told you, but we’ve all been conspiring while you’ve been napping away your life watching sitcom reruns.”

“What?”

“Oh, just a small get-together with the Avengers that Pepper spent far too much money on for food that a teenager from Queen’s won’t appreciate. I think your Aunt’s baking a cake, but don’t worry, we have Steve making a back-up.”

“Mr. Rogers can bake?”

“You’d be shocked. It’s unnerving,” Mr. Stark leans back on the couch, squishing Peter’s feet between his back and the couch cushions. “And, Happy is picking up your friends. Ed and The Girl Who Hates Me.”

“Ned,” Peter giggles. He knows Mr. Stark remember’s Ned’s name even though he never uses it. “And her name is Michelle. We call her MJ.”

“She’s scary.”

“I know,” Peter isn’t sure what his face does, but Mr. Stark looks at him funny for a moment, then sighs and looks out the window. He doesn’t say anything for several moments, and Peter feels the general uneasiness he’s felt around everyone--absolutely everyone--since returning settle over him. The weight of the secret, of knowing he knows so much more than everyone thinks he does.

“Are you sleeping?” Mr. Stark asks suddenly.

“Yes,” Peter answers quickly. Too quickly.

“You know,” Mr. Stark sits up again, releasing Peter’s feet from against the back of the couch. He looks pointedly at him and sniffs. “I really missed it when you lied to me. Really takes me back to simpler times.”

Peter sighs. “Mr. Stark.”

“Peter.” 

Peter knows then that he wasn’t imagining things when he was sure Mr. Stark knew something was that morning. Peter’s name is reserved for seriously inquiries and very-special-episodes. His eyes start to burn. No no no. His bed is for crying.

“Are you having nightmares?” Mr. Stark’s voice is gentle in a way Peter has only heard a few times, mainly in that hazy time after he first got back. “If you are, it’s fine, and expected. I’ve had my fair share...still do.” He chuckles darkly and squeezes Peter’s ankle. “You can come get me. If you need to.”

“Not nightmares. Just thinking. I can’t stop.” Peter squeezes his eyes shut.

“About what, kiddo? You’re safe here…”

“About…” Peter takes a deep breath. He has to admit it eventually. He squeezes his eyes shut. “There.”

Mr. Stark lets out a long sigh. “I suspected.” He rubs his goatee with his good hand and his voice shakes a bit. “How much?” 

“All of it.” Peter feels a hot tear leak out from under his eyelid. Now he’s going to think about it. He doesn’t think about it when he’s not in his bed, about the burning and the quiet and the people he knew who barely acted like people. And the people he didn’t know, so many of them, trapped there.

“Christ, kid.”

“I’m sorry--”

“ _Nope_.” Mr. Stark interrupts, probably more harshly than he intended. “We discussed this, you’re not allowed to say that anymore.” Peter opens his eyes to look at him, and more tears escape. His head is in his hands. “Fuuccckk.”

Peter doesn’t know what to say, so he just stares at the ceiling. One corner looks like it would be perfect for a web-hammock. What does someone say? _Hey, I was trapped in another dimension for a really long time with strange-ghost-people who acted weird, but I felt pretty normal, and it was terrifying and lonely, and I found out it was for four years, but everything is rewound and nobody else remembers any of it except me, so maybe we should do some experiments or something, and--_

“Were you alone?” Mr. Stark interrupts Peter’s internal monologue, voice still shaking.

“No. Well, a little. I found a bunch of people, but they were all out of it. Dr. Strange was normalish some of the time, but then he would go out of it again. It was like they were drugged, or in a trance, or something.” Peter reaches up to wipe his eyes. “There were a lot of people there. They were all like that.”

“Jesus Christ, Pete,” Mr. Stark shakes his head in his hands. “Fucking Christ.” He looks like he’s trembling, and Peter doesn’t like that at all.

“It’s alright Mr. Stark, it’s over, and I knew you’d come get us eventually, and you did, and--” Peter pushes himself up to sitting, the arm of the couch digging uncomfortably into his back. It’s surprisingly grounding. “--and everything’s fixed, and--”

“It’s not fixed, Peter,” Mr. Stark exhales hard again. “Not if...fuck. Fuck.” He lifts his head and looks at his hands, then shakes them, hissing through his teeth. His left arm clearly didn’t like that. He sits up straight, inhaling deeply, then lets it out long and slow. Peter hasn’t ever seen him have a panic attack, but he knows he has them, and wonders if he’ll get to see one in the next few minutes.

“I’m sor--”

“Ah!” Mr. Stark turns and jabs a finger in his direction. “No.” He rubs his forehead and collapses back into the couch. “Fuck.”

“Are you alright, Mr. Stark?”

“Not really worried about me right now, genius,” he blinks dumbly up at the ceiling. “I know we have to talk about this, but I have no fucking idea how to.”

“I don’t really want to, Mr. Stark.”

“Me neither, but we _need_ to.” Mr. Stark looks over at him. Peter thinks his eyes look too shiny. “And at the very, _very_ least, you need to sleep.”

“I did sleep.”

“On a normal schedule, in your bed. You’re still a growing bug.”

“Spiders aren’t bugs, Mr. Stark. And you’re one to talk.”

“Watch it, or I’m not going to give you your present,” Mr. Stark closes his eyes again, rubs his goatee again. “Have you told anyone else?”

“No,” Peter pulls his knees up to his chest. He doesn’t want to talk about this. He already knows he won’t sleep tonight, not even the few hours he’s managed to steal after lying awake until early morning. 

“Thank you for telling me.”

“Well, you kind of knew anyway.”

“Still,” Mr. Stark looks over at him. If possible, he looks even more tired. And older. “I know you’re not alright, but...are you alright?”

Peter understands what he means, and understands that he isn’t alright, not really. But he’s here, and he’s real, and tomorrow he’ll get to see the friends he hasn’t seen in four years, and even if they don’t know it, he will and he’ll be glad. And he’ll be hugged by his aunt when he wakes up after four years of not having her hugs, and Mr. Stark will make him a cup of coffee with far too much milk and sugar and tell him caffeine will stunt his growth, even though he went four years without growing, without eating or drinking or anything. But he will tomorrow. And it’ll be good.

“No. And yes.”

“I meant it. We need to figure out how to talk about this.”

“I know,” Peter rests his chin on his knees. 

“I wish you didn’t. Remember. I wish I didn’t remember.”

“I know, Mr. Stark. But it is what it is.”

“You should have stayed on that bus,” he sighs, even though they both know that probably wouldn’t have made any difference, except he might have been alone when it happened, and Mr. Stark wouldn’t have been there with him. He rubs his face one more time, then heaves himself off the couch. Peter can hear his joints crack in protest. He doesn’t know if Mr. Stark is actually older, or if he just seems it, or what strange time conundrum they kicked off. He doesn’t really care. “Come on.” He holds out a hand for Peter, pulling him off the couch and then heading towards the kitchen space. He gestures for him to take a seat on a stool at the island, and Peter does, watching at he walks around the marble countertop, left arm held tightly at his side.

“Four minutes after.” Peter rests his elbows on the cool marble.

“That it is.” Mr. Stark checks something under the counter, then stands up straight and looks directly at him.

“I’m seventeen.”

“Seventeen, and four years.”

“What does that even mean, Mr. Stark?” Peter yawns. He wishes his exhaustion meant he’d sleep soundly, but he knows that’s too much to wish for right now.

“What it _even_ means is that technically, as of four minutes ago, you’re twenty-one, kiddo,” Mr. Stark sniffs and turns to grab a bottle full of dark amber liquid from one of the higher shelves behind him, one that’s full of all kinds of bottles that Peter has really only seen on television. May never kept much alcohol in the apartment. He steps to another cabinet and takes out two short, wide glasses, cradling the large bottle awkwardly in his injured arm.

“I don’t think it works that way, Mr. Stark.”

“And when does anything work the way it’s supposed to, Mr. Parker?” He sets the bottle on the island, then takes both glasses to the sleek silver refrigerator to get some ice cubes. The clinking is almost deafening in the quiet space.

“True,” Peter chuckles darkly. “Even when it works, it doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Stark sets the glasses on the counter and unscrews the bottle. “But if you breathe a word of this to your aunt, I’ll sabotage every function in your suits. All three of them.”

“‘Three?’” Peter watches as Mr. Stark pours dark liquid into each glass, just enough to cover the three ice cubes in them. Peter only has two, the spandex suit and the Iron Spider, as Mr. Stark had called it. His onesie didn’t have any functions to sabotage.

“Three,” Mr. Stark pushes one glass towards Peter with his right hand, wincing a bit as he reaches under the countertop with his left. The smell of alcohol is strong and astringent. He pulls out a small black box wrapped in a bow that alone probably costs more than Peter’s shirt, and places it on the counter next to Peter’s glass. “Happy Kind Of Twenty-First Birthday, old man.” He raises his glass, imploring Peter to raise his. They clink, and Peter watches as he takes a large swig, swallowing hard.

Peter tentatively brings his own glass to his lips, taking a small sip of the pungent liquid. He’s never had alcohol before, not _real_ alcohol. It’s sweet and bitter at the same time, and burns like fire down his throat when he swallows. Peter grimaces, choking a bit and for a brief moment feeling as if his stomach is trying to escape out of his mouth. But that moment passes almost instantly, and he can’t deny the warmth that spreads through his chest while he fake-gags in an overly-exaggerated manner.

“Mr. Stark, that is _nasty_ ,” Peter fakes choking, but he lifts the glass again. Mr. Stark laughs, a real laugh, in what feels like forever to Peter.

“It’s an acquired taste, Underoos. And that bottle cost more than your entire wardrobe,” he smirks. “Swallow quickly and inhale while you’re doing it, then exhale immediately after you swallow.” They both simultaneously take another drink and Peter tries to follow his instructions, and it’s better this time. Still gross, but he’s drinking expensive scotch with freaking Iron Man on his birthday after spending four years dead, so it’s not that bad. “Better?”

“Sure,” Peter raises the glass again, swallowing the last of the amber liquid. His whole chest feels warm and fuzzy.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Mr. Stark pulls the glass from his hand after he’s swallowed the rest of it. “I wasn’t expecting you to make it through the entire thing. And we still don’t know if you can get drunk with your spidey-metabolism.”

“Probably not for very long,” Peter watches him set the glass on the marble counter. It doesn’t clink as loudly as the ice did; maybe it’s the scotch, or maybe it’s the change in the atmosphere. He plasters his most innocent-teen-smile on his face, the one he uses when he wants something from Aunt May or a discount from Mr. Delmar’s deli.

“Nice try,” Mr. Stark rolls his eyes, and nudges the black box towards Peter with his injured arm, raising his own glass to his mouth to finish his drink. “Open.”

“You didn’t have to do anything, Mr. Stark,” Peter reaches out and takes the box. 

“I know, but I wanted to.” The protest is mostly ritual now; he learned soon after the Vulture incident that Mr. Stark spoiling him is how he shows affection. Peter would have been more uncomfortable if it had just been material items, but Mr. Stark gave him his time too, time that surely a billionaire superhero could spend on more important things than watching a teenager do his calculus homework. 

Peter gently unties the gold bow and sets it aside (he’ll put it in his “Iron Man drawer” when they eventually get back to Queens), and opens the black box. Inside is a metal band, the same blackish red, gold, and blue of the legs of the Iron Spider suit. There’s a small case with a simple digital clock reading 12:16 on it. It’s inconspicuous enough, but the entire piece emits a barely perceptible faint blue glow, not unlike the glow of the arc reactor housing unit that still sits in Mr. Stark’s chest. He immediately knows what it is.

“F-fuck, Mr.--Mr. Stark,” Peter looks up, eyes wide. “I can’t take this.”

“Yes, you can. And watch your language. Your aunt would kill me if she thought I was turning you vulgar.”

“I-I can’t take an arc reactor. I can barely keep track of my earbuds…”

“That’s why you’re never going to take it off,” Mr. Stark reaches for the box and pulls the band out, then grabs Peter’s left hand. He snaps it on his wrist, the fingers of his left hand fumbling just slightly. The watch glows and buzzes, then tightens to fit snugly around Peter’s wrist.

“I have to shower some time, Mr. Stark.” Peter holds up his wrist to study the watch. To someone without enhanced eyesight, it would look like just a watch, albeit an exceedingly expensive one. But Peter can see the slight glow. It’s incredibly calming. Like maybe he’ll have Iron Man always with him, even when Mr. Stark isn’t actually there.

“You think Tony Stark can’t make a waterproof watch? Jesus Christ, kid.” Mr. Stark snorts. “So little faith in your old man.”

“N-no, no…” Peter stammers, deliberately ignoring the fact that Mr. Stark referred to himself as his “old man,” even as his cheeks burn red hot. “I just never had a waterproof watch before.”

“Well, now you do,” Mr. Stark takes Peter’s wrist again and twists it around so the watch is facing up. “It’ll sync to the Stark phone Pep is getting you tomorrow--act surprised, please and thank you--and Karen is installed on it.”

“Really?” Peter practically squeals. He hasn’t talked to Karen in, well, four years. He misses her, almost as much as he misses Ned and MJ. It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize Mr. Stark had coded her to be like she was for a reason.

“Yup. Prove yourself with this and I’ll make you some sunglasses with her for your eighteenth-slash-twenty-second. Those are easier to break. I go through at least two a year, myself.”

“Wow…”

“Tap the face twice to activate the suit. It’s all in there, including the web shooters; Spidey doesn’t need as many particles as Iron Man. Be careful--three taps activates a distress signal that comes directly to me. Don’t jump off a building and accidentally tap three, you won’t get a suit and I’ll get to see a Spider-Man-splat on the concrete.”

“Ok, two for suit, three for help.”

“If Friday doesn’t connect to Karen within 30 seconds after the signal, it gets sent to the rest of the team.”

“What if it falls off, or someone takes it?”

“Jesus, kid, it’s not gonna just fall off,” Mr. Stark rolls his eyes, and pours himself another splash of scotch. He doesn’t pour more for Peter. “It’s coded to your gross Spider-baby DNA--”

“Where’d you get my DNA, Mr. Stark? That’s weird.”

“You spent how many weekends at the Compound, Peter? Your freaky DNA was all over.”

“Weird.”

“ _Anyways_ ,” Mr. Stark looks him directly in the eyes and throws back a mouthful of scotch. “If it breaks and comes off, or someone takes it off--and by that point you’d have better activated the distress signal--it shuts down. It doesn’t come back on until it comes back into direct contact with your DNA. And it sends a distress signal. So _do not_ take it off. It’ll grow to fit as you grow. Pull on it to loosen it, if needed.”

“What if someone cuts off a chunk of my arm or leg or whatever and presses it against it?”

“Ok, one, that’s fucking dark, kid. And two, either you’d have already activated the distress signal, or the fail safe would have sent it, by that point.” Mr. Stark swallows the rest of his scotch and exhales hard. “Am I clear?”

“Yessir,” Part of Peter wants to tap twice, and another pretty substantial part of him feels ill at the thought. He barely suppresses a shiver. “Any training protocols I should know about?”

“Oh, about a million. You’ll find ‘em, I’m sure, and we’ll get to them. Eventually. And no fucking around with it when Fred and Scary Girl are here tomorrow.” 

“Ned.”

“Whatever,” Mr. Stark takes away the glasses, puts them in the sink. Peter is staring at the metal band around his wrist, specifically at the small red and gold button tucked into the side. He instinctively knows what it’s for and it makes his chest feel warm. He doesn’t think it’s the alcohol anymore. A direct line, no distress needed. He can’t wait to show Ned tomorrow.

“Go to bed, Spiderling,” Mr. Stark says suddenly, and walks around the island to where Peter is sitting. “Big day tomorrow.” He feels a hand cup the back of his head and a quick kiss is pressed into his unruly bed (couch) head. Peter leans into the gesture before Mr. Stark pulls away, which he does, in about a quarter of a second. “Try to get at least some sleep. And if you need it...” Mr. Stark points to the small gold-and-red button and shrugs. “We can...sit awkwardly until we figure out how to talk about it or morning comes.”

“Good night, Mr. Stark,” he rasps around the sudden lump in his throat. His eyes feel itchy. “Thank you.”

“Happy Birthday, Underoos.” Peter hears him pad out of the kitchen and to the elevator that will take him up to his wing. Peter will follow in a few moments. Big day tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> I made Peter's birthday Tom's birthday except in 2001 because we don't know his exact MCU birth date.
> 
> EDIT: Ok, so apparently MCU Peter Parker's b-day is 8/10 and I'm a moron at google searches because I couldn't find it when I looked. Not changing anything.


End file.
